


Unfinished Pieces!

by honeymilk2005



Category: OFF (Game), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, at the beginning of each piece!, relationships and fandoms and triggers will be listed in notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 10:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeymilk2005/pseuds/honeymilk2005
Summary: just alot of unfinished pieces i just didn't want laying around! have fun!! [Many of these cut off.]
Relationships: many
Kudos: 2





	1. Hugo OFF - Hamburg :)

**Author's Note:**

> INFO: OFF by Mortis Ghost.  
> CAST: Hugo. The Batter (Father). The Queen (Deceased). Zacharie (Uncle).  
> WARNINGS: Mild to Moderate Gore, Meat, Death, Religious themes.

The world smells of plastic, and metal, and meat.

always meat.

Most associated the eight-eyed with a red shade, the sound of bones crunching under pressure, the squelching of organ, ripping of meat. shades of red and rot, mimicking the copper scent of bleeding meat, the colors of pink from when it was uncooked, at times as peachy as flesh.

He didn't associate himself with this.

The eight-eyed thought himself pure, Hugo returning to the mind, he's always been more than Mother, and maybe less than Father.

His father was a saint, after all. 

Something holy in the way that religion often feels to be.

his Mother was all royalty, clean linen and soft silk too easy to stain red with the small but messy fingers Hugo always had as a babe. Mother was lavender perfumes and the bubble baths she used to run for him, smelling like the bubblegum toothpaste he'd get around to using when he was older when the mint burned his mouth.

his Father is holy, something pure, not as clean and grey-toned but he was there in the tunics' he'd laugh when finding Hugo try to put them on when his gaze left him. Father is sharp-eyed, four-eyed, keen on the wit Hugo grew up tasting and learning to tap into, he still can't swing a bat well, but Father is not upset.

Hugo knows Father killed Mother, that it happened on the day he slept, on the day his guardians and godfathers fell too, on the day the merchant came to say hello and rock him to sleep and reassure that all was well. He's not upset. Zacharie has a nice voice, Hugo still thinks this even if the strange patterns of smooth toned words and airy chuckles remind him of the day when his father took the throne and his mother laid crumpled like paper stars Hugo could never get the hang of unfolding properly.

"Ah, what are you reminiscing, young one? truly, you dream often."

Hugo comes to like leaving a coma, in a haze and he's not quite sure when he slipped in and when it pushed him back out. and there's Zacharie, frog mask in place, head tilted to the side as he looked down at Hugo with dark eyes. Zacharie has always been bigger than him, but Father says someday he might be as big as he is. He likes the thought. ---


	2. OFF - Battarie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO: OFF by Mortis Ghost. Batter x Zacharie.  
> CAST: The Batter. The Player. Zacharie.   
> WARNINGS: Vomit, Meat, Fear, Strong religious themes, Mind control.

the question startles him awake like he just woke up from some sleep he wasn't in.

_ oh, Batter, how did you get yourself into this? _

the buzzing behind his eyes asks but he doesn't have time to answer them before he must answer him and he finds that more frightening than the bitter taste of purification under his tongue. the buzzing told him once that purification tasted like pomegranate, before quickly changing their mind to state it was more of unripe raspberries that stained their fingers. The batter didn't know what either of them was, _ but he could almost remember the color they were. _

the merchant chuckles, a laugh Batter always found irritating in a manner indescribable in the way it rings familiar. nothing about Zacharie is familiar, but the Batter never asks. maybe he doesn't know how to, with lips all sewn shut, eyes blurred with shadows under the cap he's so fond of wearing, rubber ducks no longer floating. maybe he forgot to every time he came to the little shop the seller puts up to order cured meat that makes the merchant's thin-fingered hands smell like spices the buzzing recognizes but never tells him the name of.

  
  


his mouth waters, but he doesn't buy any meat because it's not the spices that taunts him. instead, he swallows down that, the scent of travel and plastic, spiced meat and freshly printed paper thick in the shop and almost choking against the back of the Batter's throat but he doesn't choke up the mockery of air, instead he swallows it back the same way he denies the fact he bleeds.

_ he does bleed, but the buzzing tells him it's _ **_just the meat._ **

Zacharie knows, but he never says a word. he's so good at talking for ages without saying anything, so good at spinning webs of sentences so well that the Batter doesn't realize what he's said until hours later when he bites into the flesh that resembles metal more than it does meat with a silvery-gummy blue shine that backs up this point he makes in his head like it means anything. it tastes like death, but at the same time, it tastes like nothing at all. it always leaves him hungry, but that's to be expected, he's reminded, when you dig your far-too-many far-too-sharp teeth into the skin and muscle of a spirit you didn't know.

but what was the question again?

the Batter finds himself back in the shop and out of his head, no specter's flesh between his lips, no smell of copper against his throat, he finds and reminds himself where he is. the buzzing hums disapprovingly, shifting in his head, impatience in the way it wants to keep going. he can feel the gentle unseen hands of it gently pulling at his limbs, urging him to get what they need and go.

what he bought is laying on the countertop, the transaction said and done and waiting to be taken from the merchant. Zacharie bobs his head, letting it tilt on his neck in what the Batter almost recognizes as confusion before the buzzing reminds him that he's waiting, but Batter can't remember the question, but Zacharie knows that. he doesn't ask again.

_ "All said and done, yes? Unless you should crave to browse my wares again, but the puppeteer seems impatient, and I am always here, should you need me." _

the Batter doesn't reply, he doesn't want to leave, but he doesn't have a choice in the matter of what he wants. that's been how it was since the buzzing awoke in the back of his head, warm and friendly and divine. 

why does he suddenly feel so homesick?

he doesn't answer, he often doesn't. instead, he grasps the items  _ (a fistful of luck tickets, some meat though the scent suddenly makes the Batter feel light on his feet and sick in the stomach though he doesn't mention it, he guesses the buzzing bought it for him because he doesn't remember making the order. a new jersey.) _ and puts them away into wherever the buzzing liked to put them. and walks out, he can feel Zacharie's gaze on him still, and he  **s h u d d e r s.**

if he was asked why he shudders under a simple merchant's gaze, when the Batter is the one with four ruby-colored eyes, he wouldn't be able to answer. but the buzzing, nor the merchant, never asks.

part of him wished they did, the other part won't talk.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


its hours later, it's night when the batter comes back to the shop, the buzzing silent for the night and he knows they're not here. they'd be angry with him if they knew what he was doing, and part of him fears that so deeply it makes him feel sick but he hasn't eaten anything today. he can't tell if its the fear  _ (of who?) _ or the scent of meat and hunger that caused the bile to rise and for him to stand hunched over and vomit what little food he'd eaten out of him like he's repulsed at the thought of keeping it down any further. the only reason he'd eaten anything at all was because of the buzzing, he remembers how they tutted him when realizing that he hadn't eaten anything, he can almost hear it through the ringing in his ears and the feeling of heat coursing through him and how unsteady he feels. he almost drops to his knees in his own sick but he doesn't, instead, he clings to the wall like a lifeline, trying to force up what his body couldn't take in hopes that it'll be over soon.

it is over soon, but that doesn't mean much when the batter's trembling.

his throat is raw and he can taste the acid of his stomach burning the back of his throat, the roof of his mouth, his tongue. he's shaking so hard he can't think. he feels like he has a fever with how hot he is, sweat dripping off of his form. he feels faint enough to die, and the batter knows he'd be done for should a specter get the jump on him. he knows how upset his divine would be should he die and go back to the last save point, they can always tell things like that.

he spits out the bile, well, as much as he can as it mixes with spit and swallows down the rest. he didn't vomit much, just a little partially digested food, it's mostly just stomach acid but the scent chokes his throat and invades his nose in a heavy heat that makes him dizzy. he keeps moving, he didn't get all the way there for nothing.

the batter only realizes he's got spit dripping down his chin and on his jersey when he's almost right outside the store, something burns in him as he wipes it off best he can with his arm, he thinks its embarrassment, shame, but he doesn't entirely know. he knocks twice and enters. 

Zacharie looks tired is the first thing the Batter notices, the merchant chuckles but its quieted by the realization of the state of the Batter. he recognizes that there are no strings, no hands pushing the other, this is of his own accord, and part of him understands a sensation of nervousness.

why would the Batter be here?

Zacharie knows better than anyone that he can very well die, but the mainframe of being the player's merchant keeps him safe. that safety is gone now because there's no menu to pop up to stop the Batter in his own world should he decide a course of action Zacharie might not like.

something tells him that that's not what he's here for, though.

_ "Mi amigo, are you well? you look rath-" _

"What did you ask me?"

_ "Pardon?" _

the sound of the Batter's voice startles Zacharie. yes, he's heard the Batter speak before, but never without strings. part of him bubbles in anxiety, another swells with intrigue. his voice is rough and ragged, Zacharie notices, it's low and deep and something in it makes Zacharie want to twitch, he doesn't.

the Batter repeats, and it dawns on Zacharie how much larger the Batter is compared to himself as he stands close to the counter. and he recognizes that it wouldn't be hard for the Batter to jump over it, recognizes that Bat he sold him perhaps a few days ago could bring about his demise.

he wants to laugh at the irony, but the deep tone to the Batter's voice keeps him from it.

"What did you ask me? earlier today, you asked me something. what was it?"

Zacharie swallows, finding his spit suddenly thicker than it was before, though he thinks it might just be the nerves causing him to think that. the merchant gives his little chuckle, but the Batter doesn't move. he's so very close, part of him thinks, that the Batter could reach out and grab him by the throat, or rip off the mask, or-

he tries not to think about it.

_ "Ah! That, yes. It wasn't a very polite question, b-" _

"Tell me."

Zacharie shifts his stance, and neither can tell if the merchant moved the smallest bit closer or the tiniest bit away from the Batter.

_ "I had asked... _

_ Why are you afraid of me." _

the question rings in the Batter's head like a shotgun shell  _ (does he know what that is?) _ . Zacharie decides to test his luck, but his voice fails. the sentence comes out little more than a breath.

_ "Are you going to answer the question, now?" _

"Should I?"

and Zacharie found his voice lost in his chest when the Batter leaned forward over the counter, both sets of crimson eyes  _ (the same shade as his blood, he thought) _ opened and looked down at Zacharie, the Batter's lips peeled back to expose rows of too-sharp too-many teeth as he scowled down at the merchant. they were so close now, that Zacharie could feel the heat drifting from the Batter's too-many-toothed maw, and part of him wondered about his own death, but all he could do is stare.

not at his teeth, but at Him.

the Batter had never been so close to the merchant before, both of them knew it, but only one knew what it could possibly entail. so, instead of staring at the Batter's teeth despite knowing full well that he had every method of biting into his own muscle and bone instead of that of a specter's flesh, his eyes rather traced the lines of the Batter's face, the jaw, the way his muscle tensed.

and a small chuckle spilled from the merchant's chest, breathy and soft.

and part of the Batter liked the sound of his laugh like that, quiet and a shift from the normal sound of his chuckle that always felt burning under his skin like Zacharie's sole intention was plucking every wrong chord on his nerves. part of him knew, though, that most of the time that wasn't Zacharie's intention, it also understood that sometimes it was, but with how many times the Batter had given him hell, he'd earned that right to taunt the puppet should he want to on the occasion he felt daring enough. it took guts, after all, to deal with a man like him.

_ "What is your plan, mi amigo? what is going through that head of yours, pray tell." _

and Zacharie did something that, in most uses of the word, was incredibly stupid.

the Merchant reached out, upper body bent slightly to reach the hovering forward man above him. long thin fingers came up to touch the lines of the Batter's jaw, where his neck and his jaw saught connection right underneath his ears with cartilage and skin in a line that followed the bone underneath. Zacharie's hands were warm, and the Batter's skin was cold, but underneath if Zacharie touched in the right spots, would catch traces of heat similar to that of a fever he might think in the tissue. 

Zacharie's hands were so different than the Batter's own. the puppets had callouses built on his palms and certain spots on the pads of his fingers, nails bitten, knuckles rough where he'd hit wrong when throwing a punch or hit too many times and the knuckles didn't heal quite right, the skin chewed and gnawed to rawness in some spots around the nails and his skin was almost always cold. Zacharie's hands were so different, warm and dextrous, not exactly soft like a woman's hands often are, but smooth. with thin long fingers, nails slightly too long and blood dried and flaked underneath where the small bits hadn't come loose  _ (likely from the meat the Batter had ordered just earlier that day) _ , his knuckles weren't rough and oddly-healed like the Batter's were, instead the ridges where bone pushed through the muscle, the skin and the cartilage was unmarred. he'd spotted a few dark hued freckles on the peaks of his knuckles or where he could faintly see the blue-green veins underneath every now and again when Zacharie had handed him the equipment purchased, fingers lightly coiled around the object in a light grip, nails gently against the material in this certain way that fascinated him-

_ "Why do you fear me?" _

and he asks again.

but now they were pressed against his skin, so close to his neck, and it took half a breath for the Batter to jerk back, recoil like he just took a punch to the teeth when in reality it was simply Zacharie's palms against the hinge of his jaw. it gives all the answer Zacharie needs, with the Batter acting like he got the wind kicked out of him, all fever and broken ribs and he almost thinks he's going to be sick again with how his stomach churns with fear  _ (though it doesn't quite feel like fear) _ though, there's not much to throw up apart from bile this time. he doesn't of course, but the Batter's eyes are wide and glowing as he stares at Zacharie.

"I don't know..." 

come's Batter's answer at last. He's twitching, almost trembling but not quite.

and maybe, Zacharie is smiling behind that mask  _ (that  _ **_stupid_ ** _ fucking mask) _ because he got the answer he needed, and now, even without the teeth of a beast or the eyes of an insect the merchant can't quite put his name on, maybe he knows the answer to the Batter's confusion.

_ "you know, my friend, I believe perhaps I know." _

his hands are flat against the counter, but not for long. 

suddenly, more sudden than the abrupt acknowledgement of a metal clock ticking on the wall  _ (12:46 AM, the Batter read out of the corner of his eye)  _ the merchant jumped up upon the countertop he'd handed the puppet his things before so many times, fingers almost brushing each time now becoming a pedestal for someone in that moment feels more divine than the ringing in his ears.

Zacharie's dark cowhide boots were now settled on the countertop, steady and easy like he's done this before  _ (he hasn't, but he likes to make it seem like he has) _ as he is now the one towering above the other, despite the Batter being the one with the weapon but it didn't matter much. he'd stand there, looking over the Batter in the same clothing Batter never got a good look at: wearing the white overcoat Zacharie seemed so fond of with a hem of a t-shirt  _ (or was it a sweater?) _ peeking out underneath. dark pants that hugged his legs, which, admittedly, looked rather muscled and strong ---


	3. UNDERTALE - In the face of desolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO: UNDERTALE by Toby Fox. UNDERFELL AU.  
> CAST: Underfell King Asgore Dreemurr. The Player. Underfell Frisk. Underfell Ex-Queen Toriel Dreemurr.  
> WARNINGS: Violence. Burning. Fire. Insanity. Battle. Blood.

Asgore is a king who's been described as made up of compacted ash.

He hovers above like a skyscraper, shadow cast over what he towers above, threatening and sharp edges and quiet. He's always been quiet. His armor is polished in hues of indigos and golds and blues like bruises on human skin, but you could trace out the scratches from unruly monsters meeting the business end of the baronet. Each repair in the cloak that tatters at the ends from dragging against the flowers of his garden that thorn up at him as if in mock threat but they, too, understand the danger in their midst. Fabric pooling around his form like darkness acting as covering to the unseen, white fur a threat rather than something comforting and soft to the touch, a haze of honey across the strands, hair pulled back in braids fitted to hold flowers but those hands who'd pluck and loop the flower stems through golden hair are long gone, now.

There's a constant scent of ash around him that coats the roof of your mouth, faintly of pollen that clings to him as a child clings to a father when fear overtakes, faint lemon hanging to the coattails, in the groove of his armor, in his birch colored fur. It sticks to the inner parts of your lungs like pests in the insulation of a shitty apartment in a way you can't choke up, no bile wiping it clean except burning your throat and the rosy buds of your tongue. the lemon scent of pollen is never present enough to catch more than a lingering. one might call it comforting, almost familiar, like how burnt fabric and dust-smeared linen and babbling sorts of laughter might remind you of someone you met a long time ago, in halls the color of lavender-  _ or was it the flesh of apples? you can't remember. _

that person, however, would be very wrong to associate anything comforting with hands as bloodied as his.

Claws that etch railroad tracks into too-tender flesh, eyes of dull violets that'd wilted and turned dark, horns that scratch the skies and the stone above it with the crown heavy and full of gems of the soul he's reaped, and one would expect the reaper to wield the scythe instead of a trident, but it fits in death's hands just the same way. Poison on the under-tongue and quiet low voiced words that tornados rip up the earth trying to shake out. There's copper underneath the tones of that fur, skin the color of a long-dead child's eyes that he doesn't care to remember the name of, there's no hesitation in the way the fire bubbles under the soil in a sort of half humming you can't put to language in how it hurts, boots do nothing when the cavern is full of heat, blistering and unwavering and setting in. In that heat, some apologize to the old woman in the ruins with a frayed mind and a golden ring just the same as on the king's own hand for not being strong enough, others succumb in tearstains and others die fighting against the burns pulling up the skin in red boils like how a grease-fire clings, and burning alive hasn't ever felt holy- It's only ever felt like burnt meat and skin as black as coal no matter how much the King recites lines one might find carved in the leather-backing of the water damaged bible no one reads.

**_You_ ** wonder if this is what that old Queen with the teardrop eyes and the same copper-colored pads of her palms' pies used to go through, bubbling bursting crust and boiling filling hot enough to scald. You almost laugh at the thought- and those half-prayers that are more sacrilege than they are piety. 

It smells like- well.

It sounds like howling, and it tastes like overbaked grief.

It looks like rage turned hollow.

You wonder if once the King had something to lose, no kingdom falling to his gaze with meaning.

You wonder if he still does.

There's pounding under your feet, and his eyes glaze amber. 

The fire comes.

You apologize, once. Asgore's hardened gaze does not lighten, his hands do not shake, and his breathing does not falter.

There are trumpets in your head as heel hits the ground, skidding on burnt dirt as fire roars in patterns, intricate and practiced and powerful. You are mindful, but you are not afraid. He doesn't show confusion, neither does he ask why. He doesn't care about you, and you smile at the thought that maybe, another time or another life, he would have.

The fire comes in waves, relentless in its fuming heat, it stings your eyes, but you don't close them. The light is glaring off his armor in a way that makes angels look faulty, and he says nothing. The light hits the gems in the crown, and a halo that does not fit rounds his horns. You say something about violin strings and apple filling in half-done sentences stringed together poorly like child projects. He almost scowls, but he doesn't. The heat gets worse. Was apple his favorite?


	4. OFF - Cowardice in his false God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO: OFF by Mortis Ghost. Possible Player x Batter.  
> CAST: The Batter. The Player.  
> WARNINGS: Mind control. Strong religious themes. Insect themes. God. Violence. Religious surrealism.

Waking up felt like hell for the Batter.

everything felt cold, he was freezing, like someone had dunked him in ice water. he could _swear_ he felt it trickling down his back, running its frigid fingers down his spine in some strange patterns he didn't care to map out. his ears were ringing, and he felt heavy and unsteady on his feet like a _fever_ had made itself home in the marrow of his skull. but when he moved he found a bigger issue.

pain ached from where he moved, forcing him to take a sharp breath like someone _pinched_ his lungs between his ribs. it was mostly in his hands, his feet, but certain spots felt like hellfire, almost like they were bruised yet he knew he'd done no work to gain such a soreness. he'd force himself to move his hands, roll his shoulders, take a few paces. a breath left his chest when he did, resisting the urge to groan from the pain. his joints were stiff like it was trying to stop him from moving, a mechanism you'd see in a lock felt like the pins were keeping him still whether he wanted to be or not, but he figured waking on his feet wasn't helping the sensation either. he'd stretch, trying to move as much as he could and the sense of ice slowly began receding, moving became if only slightly easier. he could feel the muscle shift under his own skin, the bones popping. 

how _long_ had he been sleeping here?

_maybe sleeping wasn't the right word._

then, he felt it.

something _buzzed_ in his head like a bee at the glass pane of a window as it tried to get in, furious and loud and vibrating. it felt like something sickening, something aching. the Batter felt it might have been the cause of this throbbing, _pounding_ in his hands, his limbs.

but it didn't take long for the intuition behind his nerves to flare, and one order not from him but rather from that buzzing _mass_ in his head was understood.

**_ｍ ｏ ｖ ｅ_ **

the voice was quiet and almost whiney, like an old door hinge that squeaked when used. it _buzzed_ like an _insect_ , and there was murmuring so quiet under the already whispered order that he couldn't decipher.

but the instinct in him, every chord of something that could feel in him urged him, howled for him to obey.

so he moved. finding it like hands were guiding him, fingers pressed into the _flesh_ of his back, and moving the cartilage that held his kneecap in place. he found it so much easier like this rather than he was almost locked in place, needing to fight with every footfall. it felt almost mechanical at first, too perfect, then he let himself relax, muscle no longer tense with this unknown presence lessened the ache in him. he could slowly feel his fingers regaining sensation in the nerves under his nails.

the Batter found himself breathing easier, like this like he was no longer struggling to take in the thick air that smelled of the plastic flowing around beside the platform, nothing sitting on his chest. he could hear the clicking of the blocks nearby, like machinery, and the buzzing became more lenient, softer. 

for a reason he couldn't explain, he almost _panicked_ for a breath's moment that whatever it was rattling in his head would leave.

_why was he afraid?_

he couldn't answer that.

he heard the sound of paws, skin padding against the ground that ringed with the occasional tap of a claw. a cat, he recognized. the grin was too wide, eyes too sighted, but he found it almost friendly, almost familiar.  
the voice that came from the cat was a sound he didn't expect but the mass welcomed, part of him didn't recognize it. he wondered if they met before.

"There cannot be any living beings in zone zero; hence, I deduce that you are a pure figment of my imagination. nevertheless, I will introduce myself. I am The Judge, and I am _aching_ to know your name, dear illusionary interlocutor."

the words rolled off his tongue easily, as if he was always supposed to. he remembered now, what he was meant to do. and what this being that buzzed in his head was, however unnerving they were.

_"I am the Batter. I've been entrusted with a sacred mission."_

"It is a pleasure, although it was not the body I was addressing, but the soul that it harbors. what is your name, controller?"

_"Their name i_ **ｓ** _**-"** _

**it was nothing less than a fever when he said their name, the words rolling off his voice like a sickness, a medicine.**

**he knew it was them, no one else could it be, but he never thought his** _**Guide** _ **would be more something he should call a** Ｇｏｄ．

_divinity like a fat bluebottle buzzing in his head, divinity like hands against muscle and skin._

_divinity like a thousand whispers and promises, divinity like the plague and the cure._

_he could feel them now, shifting in his nerves, gentle in a manner undefined but honest in the way he ached._

_there was solace and a promise that their mission would not go unfinished, not unheeded by whoever or whatever took the muscle and bone to move him along, and the Batter thought he would not mind being this being's puppet._

_he could taste the bitter sense of purification underneath his tongue, salt against his lips like blood._

**Ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ ａｓ ｐｕｒｅ ａｓ ｔｈｉｓ．**


	5. UNDERTALE - Gyftmas Season!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INFO: UNDERTALE by Toby Fox. Christmas.  
> CAST: Wingding Gaster. Chara Dreemurr. Asriel Dreemurr. King Asgore Dreemurr. Queen Toriel Dreemurr.  
> WARNINGS: Christmas. Holiday themes. Mentioned negative themes [Such as: War. Murder. Experimentation. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder / PTSD.]

Hard bone fingertips tapped against the metal table, idle but almost frustrated in the quick pattern of simple beats like chords in a melody. The table rings with the impact, hard enough only for a sound. The metal is cold, but it doesn't bother him. Gaster hunched over the table, a pen in one hand and the other busying itself with tapping. His hands were wrapped in bandages, through the hole in each palm, used to cut back how the cold loved to irritate the sensitive exposed inner bone within the man-made gaps in each hand. 

Of course, Gaster didn't care much about how cold the lab was at that given moment. He had bigger things to concern himself with, even if his hands vaguely ached.

a white lined sheet of paper torn out of a notebook was sitting on the table, a pen between his fingers as the other hand tapped. there wasn't much on the paper, written in windings with the sort of finesse that came like second nature to him.  scarf , bandages (Magical?),  seed packets ,  books , all crossed out with about 5 other entries scribbled out in violent strokes of the pen to the point it was unreadable. 

_ "It shouldn't be this difficult..." _

the words groan like a hinge of a door that hasn't been used in a while, low but protesting and mumbled. he drops the pen, half irritated and half confused, on the table before covering his eyes with the base of his palms where the holes weren't opened, half covering his eye sockets with the fabric of the dark greyish blue sweater he'd taken to wearing. the bright lights of the lab were giving him a headache, but it was reasonable to think compiling the list wasn't helping. he sighs, it's a long tired one. he's been trying to compile a good list of gifts for at least two weeks now, asking anyone he can think of  _ [who wouldn't blab, of course. he didn't want someone giving out the fact he'd finally decided to gift the human something.] _ to figure out useful gifts that were likely to actually be useful or meaningful in some way more than simple seeds when they'd already bore witness to the growing pattern of all the plant specimens available  _ [which weren't many, predictably.] _ or as useful but less potent in how it'd be felt upon receival like books or a scarf. he'd almost decided on the bandages, given how often Chara was known to find themselves in a brawl that'd send them limping with a frantic prince carrying their weight on his shoulder knocking at his door, but it'd become apparent that it might not have been the best option from a passing mention to the yellow scaled reptile who'd he'd been mentoring for a fair time pointing out how the child might take it rather as a mocking gift than anything else, despite Gaster's intent.

he sighs, rubbing around his sockets in a sound similar to scraping as bone rubbed against bone. He was never the best with situations more levered on sentimentality, frankly put, he'd often ask the Queen for assistance with such cases, but this was a special case. Besides, he was ever aware of how horrid His and Her Majesties were at keeping quiet with secrets in hand.

which just made his job that much harder.

It's a solid hour and a half longer before the Doctor finally decides and makes up his mind on the gift, something he could build himself, which was always preferable given his trade. as well as the fact Gaster's, rightfully so, has been called nothing short of a perfectionist when he sets his mind on something. ever the one to continuously add more detail or adjust the project until it was just so, tweaking till the edges of frayed metal gouge their protests into his sometimes-reckless-but-precise-enough hands. it wasn't exactly uncommon for him to stay up hours longer than he should, running on nothing but his wit and what coffee that fell below.

others would say he ran solely on his own stubbornness.

he couldn't say they were wrong.

and, unsurprisingly, this certain present followed the same pattern.

  
  


though, where his hands were skilled with metal and wiring, intricate machinery tweaked and perfected by elegant fingers that'd worked magics that made even monsters baffled in the way that was hard to put to words, he wasn't as skilled in the design department. it was always where the King and the Queen would often step up, or he'd run by the design with one of his more artfully skilled staff, often Alphys had an eye for what looked right, though she struggled with putting it to words. he hoped it wasn't too bad, at least not as bad as his other designs had been.

the lower lab which housed more of his..less than child-safe projects  _ [most anything in his lab being child-safe was a joke, frankly.] _ was absolutely thrown into this type of familiarity when it came to his downfalls, the elevators sometimes moving in ways they shouldn't, all directions accessible by the special system of gears and pulleys and rails he'd set in place. yes, the elevators glided to the point you often didn't realize you were moving apart from the vague clicking of gears shifting into place, but the way it shuddered when it moves in a way it likely shouldn't when the machine was originally built for going up and down adjusted was...uncanny, to say the least. the rooms scattered in a pattern that didn't make sense, beds one room over to the flowers, the kitchen at the far end between them, vents that buzzed like insects in a frenzy and a chill that made walking barefoot on the tile like walking in cold water, the entire lab almost breathing with the way the lights snapped off at precisely the time they should, uncanny in the way the dark was. the CORE wasn't exempt from this, either. hallways leading to places they shouldn't, changing on a dime, but the CORE was built to be a puzzle, adjustable at will, so he didn't much count that in the list of designs W.D. should never have been allowed, but the King didn't know how to say no in a polite enough manner. 

a week and a half later, a handful of days before Christmas, and it was done.

The royal family often liked to throw a Christmas party each year, nearly the entire Underground came, knowing it was all to be fun and laughter. Gaster was always dragged, never really one for holidays, except this year. Toriel didn't have to pin him down and fend off swarms of clicking hands that tried to halt her pursuit with a hand-knit Christmas themed sweater  _ [that may or may not have a horrendous science pun on the front] _ this year, rather it was donned himself with careful hands holding to the gift neatly wrapped in a white silky thin fabric that was soft to the touch and tied shut with bright red ribbon close to his chest, like it was something precious, maybe it was. 

The walk to the castle was easy, leisurely given he was often the first one to the castle, no rush through the crowds of party-goers. the heat of the CORE and Hotland was sweltering but given his years of living near the magma and the circuits that sizzled like the electricity was feeling particularly playful that day, it wasn't something he was unaccustomed to. the box held tight under his arm as he went, almost protective. it occurred to him how strange this was when he hit the technicolor lighting of the CORE, thrumming with its own energy. How strange it was for a monster to gift something to a human, given the history.

it wasn't like the Doctor was unfamiliar with the history between the two, not by a longshot. he'd lived through the war himself, fighting at the King's and the Queen's sides until they could no longer fight. he'd lived through the cries of fear and pain, the paranoia of knowing your in a fight with a beast much bigger than yourself but no way to run, the wounds, the heat of magic uproaring until it could no longer hold its shape.

and the ash.

oh god, the dust.

it stuck to the back of your throat, covered everything it could like a shroud, clouds of what made up his friends' bodies hanging in the air, coughed up when a wrong breath coated your lungs. it didn't have a prominent scent to it, but with how much there was, coating the dirt until it became mud when it rained, it was a constant smell of worn-out clothes, soot when wood and ash alike caught fire from blasts of magic that rumbled like an earthquake. it was a constant scent of the moments before a monster is about to die when it, faintly, smells like pine needles, or fresh air, or like nothing at all. distinct in the way that horror comes with that barely-there scent building in the war until it threatened to choke you out. 

he tries to brush the thought off, shiver it out of him. his bones click with the shiver.

Maybe he's doing this for one of the children of the kind that decimated monsters because of Toriel’s and Asgore's hopes for the two to get along after years of Gaster's coldness, sharp-tongued and delicate handed in the way he'd shut Chara out. his reasonings were understandable, the wariness and deep-rooted mistrust of humans, even if they were children, didn't go away easily. he couldn't snap his fingers and forgive them, not after he'd seen that no matter how much begging and pleading, it didn't matter how old the human was, or how kind they seemed to be.

they always went back to their roots.

It's been 3 years since Chara fell, quiet and hurt and limping as they held to the young prince for dear life. the child had become siblings with Asriel  _ [the kindhearted, selfless, stupidly naive boy.] _ , became like a child to the dreemurrs, a second heir to the people. it sometimes felt like Gaster was the only wary one, with Toriel and Asgore so readily accepting the child without the thought of what might happen if the child regained their strength, no attempt to detect what the human might truly be like under the guise of the hurt dog in the field of rabbits. yes, the wounds might have rendered them defenseless, but the hunting dog always returns to what it knows.

they have canine teeth for a reason.

Gaster still didn't trust them, not entirely. maybe he never would, not with the nightmares of those rolling muddied fields of dust plaguing him, with the fear of betrayal when the human might turn to what it knows best lingering in the back of his head each time he heals them after they get in a fight with a monster insulting Asriel's good name. maybe he'd never trust them, not fully, but if nothing else, each fight resulting in nothing more but scratches on the monster as Chara went home limping and bloody, each act of kindness be it assisting Asgore in his garden or sacrificing one of their crayons for Asriel held the same weight, each vulnerable moment with a weapon at arms reach and a monster with their back turned but their fingers never grip the handle of the knife in the kitchen, proved something.

Gaster wasn't sure what it proved, he didn't know if he ever would.

Maybe the gift he'd worked so tirelessly on that he held to his ribs as he walked across the neon circuited grounds of the CORE like something precious was a testament to his growing faith in the human heir, even if it'd been slow and wavering and finicky to build. maybe it was some sort of 'Thank You' for their kindness, or a hope that it might convince them to keep on this path. some part of himself murmured in the back of his head how they'll eventually turn back on their old ways, Humans always did, and no amount of begging or bribery would stop them. it seethed in his head like a fever he couldn't shake, a bitter taste under his tongue, a tension behind his eyes. 

but it's Christmas. 

nows not the time for what might occur, not now.

he had to trust them that they were good.

they had to be good. ---

they had to.


End file.
